Miskatonic Nightmares Read online

  The library at Miskatonic University boasted more than one restricted area, from clandestine faculty lounges and cryptic meeting halls to hidden alcoves and long-neglected private athenaeums. The particular section assigned to Palmer had, over the decades, given rise to some of Arkham’s most notorious legends. Its sheer vastness made a demoralizing impression upon the human mind while the chronic state of disorganization threatened all trespassers with temporary derangement.

  Although Palmer currently toiled at the bidding of collections specialist Norton Schubert, the shelf he surveyed came under the purview of Edwin Curley, the beloved former chief librarian at Miskatonic University. Curley had formed an enduring bound with the young man the very first semester he arrived in Arkham. Palmer displayed an enthusiasm for the conservation and restoration of books, manuscripts, documents and ephemera that few of his peers shared. Most younger generations took more interest in scanning and digitizing collections rather than trying to save each delicate, printed page.

  Palmer glanced at his watch: 2:17 am. It could have been midday and he still would have felt as though he had wandered through a portal to another world – an unpopulated, isolated, and forsaken world orbiting the remnants of a long-dead star on the fringes of the universe.

  Even on the best days, the lighting in this part of the library proved insufficient. Having volunteered as a library assistant for three years, Palmer had taken to providing his own illumination. After some experimentation, he settled on a reasonably priced and durable headlamp popular with spelunkers. In its radiance, his eyes swept the mosaic of colorful book spines. He compared the titles to the list on his tablet computer.

  This specific shelf – Curley’s shelf – he knew quite well. He knew each gilt lettered and decorated cover and spine, each lacy dentelle and each custom slipcase. From simple, unpretentious pamphlets and chapbooks to the voluminous old tomes and grimoires embellished with ornate tooling, silk headbands and marbled end-papers, Palmer had learned to recognize the aesthetic quality of their exteriors.

  Never once, however, had he been enticed to plumb their blasphemous contents for edification or folly. Palmer knew better.

  He worked his way across the shelf, from left to right, checking off each book on his tablet with a touch of his index finger. The shelf’s contents included:

  Andere Götter, by Heinrich Niemann; Frankfurt, 1496.

  Conversations avec les morts; by Nicolas l’Agneau; Paris, 1664.

  Cultes des Goules, by Francois-Honore Balfour, Comte d’Erlette; Paris, 1703.

  Culto Cattivo, by Raymundus of Capua; Venice, 1685.

  Curiositez inouyes, sur la sculpture talismanique des Persans, by Jacques Gaffarel (with author’s marginalia); Paris, 1637.

  De Vermis Mysteriis, by Ludvig Prinn; Brussels, 1542.

  Die Mysteriöse Bruderschaft, by Jürgen von Blackenburg; Magdeburg, 1898.

  Dieux de la lune, by Jacques Kerver; Toulouse, 1717.

  Magia Antigua, by Gonzalo López de Ayala; Toledo, 1815.

  Magiae naturalis (unexpurgated version), by Giambattista della Porta; Naples, 1558.

  Nuevo Descubrimiento del Gran Río de las Amazonas (edition confiscated by Spanish Inquisition), by Father Cristobal de Acuña; Seville, 1639.

  Unaussprechlichen Kulten, by Friedrich von Junzt; Dusseldorf, 1839.

  Verbotene Anbetung, by Friderich von Batsdorff; Leipzig, 1686.

  Welt von Schatten, by Otto Magdunensis; Dusseldorf, 1576.

  Aside from a few select editions dutifully placed in a secret vault beneath the library building, these titles represented some of the most treasured – and dreaded – possessions of Miskatonic University. The other vault contained the school’s various editions of Abdul al-Hazred’s storied Al Azif – including an early, handwritten copy of Theodorus Philetas’ Necronomicon and a number of bastardized translations that proved to be as dangerous as the original.

  Just as Palmer decided to call it a night, he realized something was amiss: One of the prized tomes was missing,

  Par la porte de la sorcière, an otherwise indiscreet and unmemorable volume by 17th century occultist Magdelaine Chaboseau de Labrousse. Its badly degraded condition made it one of the more conspicuous titles. Its original full contemporary calf gilt binding had deteriorated. It had been subjected to excessive edge and corner wear as well as rubbing and tears. On his most recent examination, Palmer had noted scratches to the covers with splitting and loss to the front outer hinge.

  The book had been removed from the shelf – and it had been deleted from the database.

  Edwin Curley had always been steadfast about one thing: the disappearance of a single item from this section of the library constituted an emergency. Waiting until morning to report the book’s absence simply was not an option. The graduate student plucked his smart-phone from his breast pocket, accessed Curley’s contact information, and called him. He hoped his mentor would not be angry for being summoned in the middle of the night.

  While he waited for the former librarian to answer, Palmer failed to notice an ever-growing horde of nebulous figures amassing in the darkened corners of the stacks. A sizable legion of ill-defined horrors oozed through the porous barrier between parallel universes anticipating the beacon that would soon be lit. These unnameable entities had stirred at the first inkling of their envisaged summoning. They gathered potency from the awareness that someone’s gaze had fallen upon their ancient conjuration ritual.

  Oblivious to the monstrosities from beyond time and space just outside his discernment, Palmer frowned as he ended his call without making contact.

  *

  By 3 am., most of the academics who came to air their grievances with the school’s new collections specialist had retired for the evening, shambling off into the Arkham night to try to sleep for a few hours before returning to their classrooms. At this late hour, Norton Schubert faced only a handful of lingering scholars, still hammering out acceptable guidelines. Weary and frustrated, Schubert – who had grudgingly entertained hours of what he considered unproductive debate and had maintained as affable a demeanor as his temperament allowed – grew increasingly confrontational.

  “We have been over this repeatedly,” Schubert growled, his tone harsh. “I have compromised on many issues this evening and I have given you assurances these antiquities you so cherish will be kept secure. These other constraints you wish to impose, however, are not acceptable. I have a mandate to do what is best for this institution and I intend to act upon it. The discussion is over.”

  “I am still not happy with this,” said Adriana Langford, associate professor and undergraduate coordinator. “I will be speaking to members of the Miskatonic Board of Fellows tomorrow.”

  “You do that, dear,” Schubert said in a demeaning manner. “Give them an earful. Maybe they can clarify my authority for you.”

  “I will join her, sir, and offer my reservations about this entire endeavor.” Professor Strange braced himself against the rough table as he stood to leave. “It is too much, what you propose. You do not – you cannot – conceive of the risks. This library contains a dozen blockaded paths to Armageddon, and you recommend we remove the roadblocks.”

  “With all due respect, Professor Strange … I think you have become preoccupied by this legend-haunted city.” Schubert shook his head disapprovingly. “All of you consider yourselves academicians of the highest caliber. Yet here you sit, terrified by fables and folklore.”

  “I have been in your corner most of the night, Norton,” said Graydon Decker. “I have to differ with you on this matter. I don’t blame you for your ignorance. You’ve only lived in Arkham for a few weeks.”

  “You don’t take all these stories seriously? Ancient cults worshiping alien gods? Witches capable of opening trans-dimensional portals? A race of greyish-green ocean-dwelling creatures? Great Cthulhu and his hordes, captive in an undersea vault and communing with his disciples through vivid dreams?” Schubert paused, stifling the sudden fervo
r with which he spoke. His eyes narrowed, their pupils darting about the room as if his unintended remark might have stirred something. “I apologize,” he continued, growing curiously timid. “I find the rich mythology of Arkham charming … but I do not take it seriously.”

  “Perhaps if I were to demonstrate.” Decker reached into his attaché case and withdrew an old and tattered book. “Professor Strange, would you mind taking your seat? I might require your assistance. Professor Langford, if you would just follow along. I think you will find this illuminating.”

  “This really isn’t necessary.” Schubert raised an eyebrow when he saw the tome. “It is late and we are all tired.”

  “This book is a perfect example of what you, as our new collections specialist, might consider obsolete and superfluous.” Decker displayed it carefully, revealing its poor condition. “It is an unpretentious French grimoire unknown to most collectors and occultists. Par la porte de la sorcière came into our possession nearly 100 years ago, acquired I am told by Professor Warren Rice. Are you familiar with this book?”

  “No, of course not,” Schubert answered. “I have little knowledge of occult literature.”

  “It’s curious you should say that,” Decker said. “The individual who managed to smuggle this out of the library this evening tells me you have been asking several library staff members about items in the restricted areas.”

  “It is part of my job …”

  “My friend, though he looks old and feeble, is quite spry and clever for a man of his age,” Decker continued. “He has had a busy evening. In addition to dropping off this copy of Par la porte de la sorcière, he also managed to lead campus security to your condo on Saltonstall Street where the recovered a 19th century copy of the Necronomicon – not the best choice from the versions the school owns, incidentally.”

  “That is an invasion of privacy!” Schubert sprang to his feet, pointing his finger and shaking with anger. “I will have you all sacked by noon today!”

  Schubert grabbed his coat and briefcase and hastily made for the door.

  “Hold on, now,” Decker said. “I promised you a demonstration. I want to be sure you understand the forces with which you are so eager to associate.”

  “I will have none of this!” Schubert declared as he exited.

  “No matter,” Decker said, turning to Strange and Langford. “We don’t even need him here to do this. When Edwin Curley was going through his apartment, he pinched Schubert’s hairbrush.”

  Decker tossed the brush onto the table. Within minutes, Strange managed to outline the prescribed symbols onto the wooden surface. Langford, captivated, stood by patiently waiting instructions. Curley had been the one to suggest using a conjuring found in Par la porte de la sorcière to summon a throng of Hunting Horrors, notorious harriers for Nyarlathotep.

  “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Nyarlathotep Gothlig wgah'nagl fhtagn,” Decker began. “Bb'degyicach egn'eigg gothlig gtla. Lilotug melothami Yuakru-dhat Nyarlathotep. Ia! Ia!”

  The other professors followed Decker’s lead.

  “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Nyarlathotep Gothlig wgah'nagl fhtagn, Bb'degyicach egn'eigg gothlig gtla. Lilotug melothami Yuakru-dhat Nyarlathotep. Ia! Ia!”

  Downstairs, in the very heart of the stacks, the monstrous things crowding that obscene congregation burst through the barrier separating dimensions, sailing impatiently upon charnel winds that scour distant blighted worlds. They swept past a nervous young man pacing the aisles, frantically trying to contact his mentor but wholly oblivious to the ghastly spectacle writhing in shadow just outside his perception.

  Elsewhere in the building, the newly hired collections specialist scrambled for safety. His theft detected and his grand designs deduced, he now feared the academicians he tried to con. Racing through the lobby, he first saw the desk clerk. Standing near the front door he spotted the meddling old codger Edwin Curley, accompanied by four Arkham police officers and a campus security guard.

  Schubert spun around and dashed down a corridor past the velvet rope designating restricted access and toward the oddly slanting double doors beneath receding arches that led to the labyrinthine inner sanctum of Miskatonic’s library. There, in the network of shelves crafted from walnut, he ran headlong into the Hunting Horrors.

  They descended upon him with no trace of mercy.

  Swarming through the air, the great ophidian creatures snapped at Schubert with gaping maws too large for their horrendously distorted heads. He felt their clawed appendages tearing his clothes, ripping his flesh, and scraping against bone. In a matter of moments, two of the things lifted him off the ground. In their struggle to claim the honor of carrying him back across the threshold, they tore Schubert apart. Gathering up the remains, they returned to their own realm, and to the unlighted chambers where dwells Nyarlathotep.

  *

  “Sir, I’ve been trying to reach you.” Lawrence Palmer’s eyes betrayed his apprehension. Though he had nothing to do with it, he felt responsible for the missing book. “There’s a book, sir – I mean, it’s not here. A book is missing.”

  “Calm down, Mr. Palmer.” Edwin Curley walked a little slower than usual. It had been a long night. “Everything is fine – just as you said it would be, earlier.” He produced the missing copy of Par la porte de la sorcière and handed it to the graduate student. “Please see to it that this finds its way back to its rightful spot. I will have the central desk relist it in inventory today.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Let’s say it was a test,” Curley said. “By morning, everything will be back where it is supposed to be.”

  “Should I report this to Mr. Schubert?” Palmer winced as he asked the question, worried that it might aggravate his mentor. “I mean, he insisted that I report any unusual findings.”

  “No need, my boy. Mr. Schubert is no longer working for Miskatonic University.”

  “Well, I guess that is good news, isn’t it?” Palmer saw a glimmer of mischief in Curely’s eye. “Sir, did the university fire him?”

  “Not exactly,” Curely said. “Others showed an interest in his talents and the university decided it no longer required his services. Let’s just say he was acquired through deaccession.”

  Beyond the Angles

  E. Dane Anderson

  June, 1964

  I had spent most of my life believing I had more than a passing understanding about the universe and how it was supposed to work. It was a logical machine that, given time, could ultimately be comprehended. When people like Keppler and Newton talked about God being in mathematics, I believed them. It was my life. Then over the course of a few short months, the dangerous curiosity of one man would shatter my long held convictions about the very nature of our existence.

  It’s been so long, but I still clearly remember the strange sound which woke me up that early morning. It was a low rumble that seemed to bounce back and forth between my ears, topped off by an almost imperceptible high-pitched whine making my fingertips buzz. Initially, I thought I was at the tail end of some bizarre dream. Being totally wide-awake for a clear five seconds when the sound suddenly stopped, proved that it was all too real.

  Less than five minutes later, I heard the sirens of the fire brigade headed towards the university. I looked out of my bedroom window and saw a cloud of smoke rising from the general direction of the Sciences Complex. Fearing the worst, I threw on some clothes and bolted out the door, running the entire three blocks to campus.

  Upon arrival, I saw the situation wasn’t as dire as I had feared. The fire brigade was parked out in front of Mathewson Hall with about a dozen curious onlookers gathering across the street, most of them students from Weeden Hall dorm. I was more than relieved to see the building wasn’t engulfed in flames, just a small cloud of smoke emanating from a broken first-floor window. The odd thing I noticed was the smell. There was an almost electrical quality to it, somewhat like the inside of a new radio. The first campus security guard I approached recognized me imm
ediately. "Dean Ramsey, I just tried to call you at your home. I'm glad you're here," he said, a little out of breath.

  "Do you know what happened?" I asked.

  "Not yet. We suspect it was just a small fire in the basement. Smoke came up though the vents and into one of the classrooms. We’re just glad the boiler was shut off for the summer or things could be a lot worse. But I need to ask you, is there any kind of lab down there or something? Any dangerous equipment that we should know about?"

  “No, nothing like that at all,” I answered. Mathewson Hall was mostly home for the Mathematics Department with a few of the physics professors’ offices. It was an older building. The basement area around the boiler was a rabbit warren of small rooms, mostly used for storage. I was reluctant to think about it, but anything could have been going on down there without anyone taking notice. My office was two buildings away, and I visited Mathewson Hall infrequently.

  "It's just that we saw someone running out of the building. I thought you might know who it could’a been, perhaps someone working late?" asked the guard.

  "I can't imagine who’d be in the building this time of night," I lied, having a pretty good idea whom it might have been. And I really had hoped I was wrong.

  About twenty minutes later, the campus police found a suspect cowering under a statute in the other side of the university near the medical school. They described him as "…some bum, probably living in the basement and had accidentally started a fire." I went over to have a look. The man I saw pretty much fit that description. He was scruffy, dirty, with clothes so ratty they were about to fall off him. I could see he was desperately clutching onto something metallic in appearance, about the size of a 45 record. He became quite belligerent when they tried to take the thing away from him.

  The campus police had him calmed down for a few moments. But just as they were handing him over to the sheriff, he quickly became very agitated. That’s when I heard a familiar voice.